


I'll Do Anything for a Woman with a Knife

by Skyuni123



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Always a girl!Q, Author's Favorite, Character Study, F/F, Feminist Themes, Minor Character Death, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, This Franchise Needs More Women, always a girl!Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6915649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her name was James Bond.<br/>Her parents were expecting a boy, she would be told later, and although there were many other options at hand to name a female baby, somehow James stuck.</p><p>It was a simple name – a boy’s name in fact – but it stuck. That was that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been of the opinion that James Bond could be a woman. Bond is a series of character traits, rather than any sort of fully fleshed out character, and these traits can be definitely applied to a woman. So, thus, this. It's part character study, and part innuendo-laden mess. Enjoy!

She entered the world screaming.

Although this was the same world that would soon be the one that constantly tried to remove her, she was given a moment’s peace to rest.

Her name was James Bond.  
Her parents were expecting a boy, she would be told later, and although there were many other options at hand to name a female baby, somehow James stuck.

It was a simple name – a boy’s name in fact – but it stuck. That was that.

She suffered many infections in her infancy – small things, that would be nothing more than a mild concern were she not quite so small – but proved near life-threatening for a child of her age. It soon became clear that despite her ailments, young James Bond had a remarkable capacity for life.

 

\--

 

The first and last time her mother was ever properly close to her was when she was ten. Her parents were a busy pair, travelling across the world to do clients' work on a moment’s notice. They were kind, but distant. Perhaps that was where she got the trait from.

Her mother had made it home for her birthday for the first time in two years. James had had a party, a very small affair where she and a few local children had run about the estate for a couple of hours, but she was uncharacteristically quiet after the guests had departed. She slumped down in front of the small fire in one of the house’s studies, and rubbed her hands to warm them up.

It was mid-October, and cold outside.

Her mother, despite being somewhat detached from her daughter’s life, knew what her child was like when she was happy. Monique had always been empathetic, far more so than James’ father at any rate. “James?” She asked, settling down in one of the leather armchairs in the room’s corner. “Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?”

James shrugged, staring off into the fire. Her light brown hair shone from the firelight. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“James, ma chérie, we both know that you are not being truthful.” She continued, softly. “What is wrong?”

James was silent for a few more moments, then sighed and said, “Why’d you give me a boy’s name, mama?”

Monique hadn’t been expecting the question and was somewhat taken aback. However, maintaining the utmost poise she tried to have during most occasions, she said, “Your name is not a boy’s name.”

“The other girls say it is.” James continued, miserably, “They laugh at me.”

So, that was why James was so unhappy. It made some sense, but Monique couldn’t fathom why the other girls would become quite so obsessed with her daughter’s name. Her daughter was far more than her name. She was witty, and intelligent, and didn’t deserve to be treated badly. “James, look at me.”

Sullenly, and after a slight pause, her daughter turned around to look at her, “What.”

She held out her hands for her daughter to grasp.

James did so, warily.

“Your name is not a boy’s name.” Monique began, “It is your name. Any person who does not respect you can –“ She struggled for the word she was looking for. Her English was not wonderful, but James was more fluent in it than in French.

“-leave?” James asked.

“That will do.” Monique said, although the word she had been searching for was considered to be far ruder. She did hate seeing her daughter unhappy. “They can leave. You were named after your grand-pere, who was a very good man. He was strong and smart, like you, James. Your father and I know that you will be as good as he was.” She stroked her thumbs over her daughter’s hands and marvelled at how she had grown. Had it really been ten years since she was born?

James looked down, and blushed slightly. “Thank you, mama.”

“Your father and I love you very much, James, and we are very proud of you.”

James blushed even redder, “Thank you… Um… so, I heard that you and father are going climbing soon?”

“Yes.” She stood from her chair and pulled her daughter up with her, “We plan to climb up the Aiguille de la Persévérance next week. I will tell you about the trip while we have dinner.”

“Thank you, mama.” James, in a movement very uncharacteristic of her, grasped her mother around the waist and hugged her.

Monique patted her daughter’s back and sighed gently. She did like spending time with her daughter, but she did wish it didn’t have to be under such upsetting terms.

 

\--

 

James wouldn’t necessarily have been called brilliant as a child.

A more accurate term would round out somewhere along the lines of _stubborn_ , or _crafty_ , or _daring_ , but certainly never _brilliant_.

She would firmly attest it was not any fault of her own, of course.

Her parents drove her to learn multiple languages; French, German, Latin, and especially English, to set her up on the course to become a well-rounded professional like themselves, but lessons were not preferable when the outside world was waiting.

She would carefully lift the latches on one of the windows of her parents’ sitting rooms, pull open the window, and squeeze out, taking off down the estate to climb the tall trees that lay on its southern edge.

There wasn’t anything wrong with her studies, but learning languages could be so dreadfully dull, and adventure called her name far more than Latin verbs did.

 

When her parents died in a tragic fall from the north-east ridge of the Aiguille de la Persévérance a week after her tenth birthday, James stopped climbing trees.

She was a daredevil, that much was true, but she’d never stopped to think of the consequences of her actions before.

 

Death was heartbreakingly, achingly, final.


	2. Young Life

 

Perhaps, yes, it was her own fault that she had been dismissed from St Mary’s. The reason that they had given, however? That had been _quite_ the exaggeration. Trouble? With one of the maids?

Ridiculous.

Yes, they had been caught in a somewhat compromising position, but it had been the aftermath of a frankly hilarious incident involving a bread knife, James’ English homework, and one of the school cats. It wasn’t nearly as untoward as it appeared.

On a whole, James was just surprised they cared so much about apparent homosexuality. It was the nineties, not the fifties. She simply couldn’t fathom why they cared so much.

James certainly didn’t. There were many things that didn’t matter in her life – her school’s terrible hats, English homework, and her sexuality – and that was that. People were attractive, and she liked spending time with them. Whether they were girls, boys, or anywhere in between did not matter in the slightest.

She supposed that it was some sort of record, being the first person to ever get expelled from St Mary’s.

\--

She was called in to see her tutor near the end of her second-to-last year at Fettes. To say Mr Exhill was disappointed with her was somewhat of an understatement. He didn’t seem to think that she was using talents to the best of her ability. James was inclined to disagree. Her talents were being used, just perhaps not in the way her teachers wanted her to use them.

“This school is reaching the end of its tether, James.” Exhill said sternly.

She had never learned his first name, despite how she had tried to find out.

“You are a bright girl but you continue to waste your talents on frivolities. You have mistepped too many times. If your family wasn’t so influential you would have…” He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

Her family wasn’t influential, unless having a guardian who shipped her off to boarding school after boarding school was what constituted ‘influence’ nowadays. “I reject that, sir.” She said, barely able to keep her temper under check. She didn’t misbehave that often. “I was _protecting_ Adam during that incident with one of the boys, if you’d recall.”

“Fighting is not an appropriate way to solve problems.” Exhill said sternly, “If you have an issue with another student, you are to go to one of your teachers about them, rather than try and solve problems using violence.”

“You know as well as I do that he would have killed him.” James bit back, “Philip was furious. I had to do something.”

Exhill sighed. “We don’t use fighting to resolve issues, James.”

“Sometimes you can’t reason with people.” She said, sulkily. Why wouldn’t people see?

Exhill sighed again, rubbing a hand over his bald spot. “We’ll put your issues with authority aside for the moment, James. What do you want to do after you leave Fettes?”

“I want to go into the Navy.” She said, surprising herself. She hadn’t really considered it, but she knew she wanted to do something where she wasn’t sitting at a desk. Paperwork was so boring. She wanted to be on her feet actually doing something to help people.

Exhill seemed as surprised as she. “Really?”

“Yes.” As soon as she had said it, she knew it to be true. It’d be something to do, at least. “I’m still part of the CCF, and I’m good at it. You know I am.”

“The Navy is disciplined, James. You’re not.”

His comment stung more than she would ever admit. “I’m better than you think.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” She’d show them. She’d show everyone.

\--

It wasn’t a surprise to her that she turned out to be one of the Navy’s best sharp shooters within two years of her arrival there.

What was a surprise, however, was the summons she received one day. She was order to go and see the base commander, a man she only knew as Sir. She presumed he had a name, although she was not nearly foolish enough to ask it.

The commander’s office was small but richly furnished, pressed neatly into a gap between the wall of the base and the mess hall. She saluted as she entered, noting that the mid-50s, moustachioed man was not the only one in the room. He had been joined by an older woman, with short grey hair. Despite her small stature, she didn’t seem to be lacking in any sort of presence.

“Sir.” She stood at attention, waiting for the commander to give her the signal to relax. It wouldn’t do to let herself down in front of this mystery woman.

However, it was the mystery woman herself that spoke. “At ease, James.”

She was confused, and looked to her commanding officer for help. He nodded, a barely-perceptible angle of his head, and she relaxed, holding her hands in front of her. She was never referred to as James. She was Bond, or a variety of other colourful nicknames, but never James.

“James Bond.” The woman spoke again. “You may sit.”

James sat, in a chair facing the other two. She crossed one leg over the other – a habit she couldn’t seem to shake – and sat up straight. She felt the eyes of the pair on her and fought the urge to shirk under their respective gazes.

“Thank you, commander.” The woman said, dismissing the commander with a glance. “I will take it from here.”

The commander nodded again, and left the room, shutting the door with a barely perceptible click as he left. James had never liked the man – she had always found his rules exceedingly restrictive and far too boring for words – but she preferred his steely gaze over the oddly invasive one that she was receiving from the older woman.

“You’re quite a sight, aren’t you.” The woman said.

James didn’t quite know how to react. Yes, she had grown muscular, but not bulky, after years of physical training, and was more lithe than a cat, but she couldn’t describe herself as beautiful. Her gaze was too hardened by years of fighting for that.

“Ma’am?” She questioned, a little uncomfortably.

“My name is M.” M said. “You’ve been making quite a few waves, James Bond.”

“Pardon?” She asked, mind working frantically. She hadn’t done anything too bad – at least not bad enough that someone could have found out. She did admit that staging an orgy while on an away mission probably hadn’t been the brightest idea but they were only young once and no-one had gotten hurt. (Aside from Clements who had come away with a case of herpes, but about 80% of the world had some form of that so it didn’t really matter in the scheme of things). 

“You’re very young to be so talented at your job. It’s really rather odd, in fact.”

“I wouldn’t call myself talented, ma’am. I’m lucky.” She wanted to stay on M’s good side. A woman who had the power to dismiss the base commander didn’t seem like someone she wanted after her.

“Luck has no place in my line of work, Ms Bond.” The older woman didn’t exactly look _sour,_ but the sheer wave of disapproval she was projecting was very apparent. “We believe in training and discipline to get results.”

“What is your line of work?” James asked, completely ignoring the ‘discipline’ part of M’s sentence.

If she was some other kind of women, James was sure that she would have sighed. Instead, she said firmly, “I work for a highly classified programme within the British Secret Service.”

Then, M laid all of her cards on the table.

James accepted the job. Of course, she accepted the job. How on earth could she pass something like M’s offer up?


	3. Taking Care of Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Get your arse up, 007, you’ve got to move.”
> 
>  
> 
> She struggles to her feet and moves just as the roof behind her is blown to pieces by machine-gun fire.
> 
> If she survives this, she’s going to buy this tech a drink.

She was to join the 00-program. An elite team of operatives for the British Secret Service (and hell, if she’d ever predicted that she was going to be a _spy_ when she was younger she would have checked herself in for therapy), that had top of the line support to complete their missions.  She would fight, fly, and work with the best. She would _be_ the best.

That is, _if_ she passed her tests first.

Physical fitness exams, medicals, mental exams, a couple of good old-fashioned written tests… there were too many to count. She wouldn’t be the youngest person to ever join the 00-program ( _if_ she got in), as that honour went to some maniac in the 60s, but at a few weeks shy of her 23rd birthday, she’d still be one of the youngest.

_If_ she got in.

_If._

 

The former 007 had been a man. And the one before that. _And_ the one before that. Something about ‘sixties sensibilities’ had been bandied about, but she just presumed they were stuck in their ways.

She had heard rumours about how the previous 007 had perished. Something about a giant satellite dish and a disgraced agent, but everything else sounded too ridiculous to be true. Maybe that was how life was just going to be now. Evildoers. Fighting crime and getting the girl.

It all sounded too ridiculous to be true.

 That was, until she was jetting off to Saudi Arabia to kill an oil magnate.

 

The mission started… fine.

_Excellently,_ in fact. She dressed up nice, stowed her gun in her thigh holster, and infiltrated the party without a hitch.

Even wooing the magnate was easily. He was charming, amiable, and she almost felt sorry for him when she shot him in the head.

 

Things went steadily downhill when she exited the room and found herself surrounded by a gang of guards dressed in black.

They were too late for him, but not for her, and when they carted her away, she thought she could have handled things better.

 

James Bond left for Saudi Arabia cocksure and bright-eyed, and returned, three months later, with a satellite phone and a lifetime’s worth of scars.

And so it goes.

 

 

_2012._

It’s her thirty-seventh birthday and she’s perched on the roof of a high-rise building, watching a target far below with a night-vision scope.

Doomsday cults have been out in full force for the last few years (2012 being the year of the ‘end of the world’, or something akin to that) and this one is no exception.

The Parliament (not the _actual_ one) is a cult hellbent on the destruction of the Western world. Or something. Dedicated she may be to her job, but at this point these missions beginning to blur together.

That’s only partially because of her. She’s fallen into a trap with her mission techs – none of them seem to be good enough to keep up. She’s not trying to flog her skill, mind, but being led into danger almost every mission because of an incompetent voice in her ear tends to grate after a while.

Constant destruction is fine, provided there’s a voice in her ear guiding her through it.

 “Do I take the shot or not?” She asks, again, not even trying to keep the irritation out of her voice this time around. Mission techs might be employed for a reason, but just for once, she’d like the chance to rely on her own skills, like she used to before ‘tech’ became such a big part of her missions.

The 21st century might be where everything changes, but she doesn’t like it.

“Wait, 007.” This tech’s named Mary and isn’t doing too bad so far. “We’re waiting on target confirmation.”

 

She can see the target with her own eyes, and she knows it’s him. She’s been tracking him for weeks. Bloody bureaucrats. Justice isn’t exactly _swift_ nowadays.

However, this mission is time-sensitive and she can’t stay on the roof forever.

The wind is picking up, and the ground below seems very far away. She’s lucky she’s strapped to the side of the roof, because it buffets her and makes her shake. If the wind gets any stronger she’s not going to be able to get a good shot from this angle.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The wind blows harder.

 

She might go mad.

 

“Take the shot, 007.” Mary’s voice comes back, crackly in the gale.

And squeezing the trigger, she does. The window opposite cracks satisfyingly and the target drops, head bloody.

It’s dead-on, but only just. If the weather had gotten even worse, there would have been no chance.

Time to go.

“Guards coming up the lift, 007. Move!”

 

She unstraps the tethers keeping herself in place, and _jumps._

Time seems to stand still for a few moments.

 

One heartbeat.

 

Two.

 

London lies flat beneath her, wanton with her lights glittering towards the heavens.

 

The rope slows her descent.

“You’re at 20. Inside!” Mary gasps, and James does what she’s told.

 

She fires at the window and breaks it as she swings through. The guards aren’t going to be stuck at the top for long and she needs to get out. Unclipping the harness she’s wearing, she drops it to the ground and takes off running.

Twenty flights of stairs. Somehow she thinks the lift would be faster, but far riskier.

 

Nineteen flights.

Too many.

 

Fifteen and the pounding in her head is offset by the pounding from above and below her. People are coming. She needs another way out.

“Options. Exits. Come on.” She hisses, making it down another flight before she spots men below her, flak-jacketed and armed.

 

“Get into the offices. There’s stairs on the other side.” Mary replies.

 

She busts open the door on the fourteenth-floor landing and rushes through a line of dimly lit offices. Behind her, she hears gunfire.

Thirteenth.

 

Twelfth.

Eleventh. Tenth.

 

More people. Coming up the stairs towards her. She looks up and sees the same from above. “Mary?!”

“Get into the offices and shut up, 007.”

And she _does._

 

She crouches, back to the wall, in a defensive position. There’s no way she’ll get them all, but she’s going out fighting. No ifs, no buts. “Exits? Lift shaft? Any bright ideas?”

 

Now isn’t the time to be snippy, but she’s probably about to die.

 

“I’m sorry, I don-“Mary begins, sounding apologetic, but she’s cut off by another voice.

 

This voice is cooler, less panicked, and confident. “Get out of the way, Mary.” There’s some shuffling, a bit of typing.

 

“Tell me you have a route out.” James says, voice tight.

 

“North end of the offices, quickly.” The voice replies, as she types furiously.

 

James rushes towards the windows at the north end of the office, dodging between rows of cubicles. There’s more gunfire behind her and she ducks instinctively as a shot rings out beside her ear.

The windows stretch out into nothingness. There’s a building below and across, _surely_ too far away.

 

“What now.” James asks, heart hammering in her chest. “Tell me.”

 

“Don’t get snippy.” The voice replies. “You can make this jump. Smash the window out, get a run up. Other staircase is compromised, so’s the lift.”

 

“I might die.”

 

“You’ll die if they shoot you.”

 

Fair point.

 

She shoots at the window, undoubtedly drawing the attention of every security guard who didn’t know where she was, and throws a chair at it, causing the long cracks in the glass to shatter.

Fine. This is fine.

She gauges the distance, then steps back a few metres. She can hear people coming, can feel their footsteps through the floor.

Now or never, then.

 

 

[…]

 

 

The rooftop of the other building is sharper than it first appears, but she’s not dead.

That’s a nice feeling, even though she’s sure she’s bleeding from somewhere on her head.

“Get your arse up, 007, you’ve got to move.”

 

She struggles to her feet and moves just as the roof behind her is blown to pieces by machine-gun fire.

If she survives this, she’s going to buy _this_ tech a drink.


	4. the fighting temeraire

J.M.W Turner’s _The Fighting Temeraire_ hangs in front of her, but she can hardly see it. She’s meeting their new Quartermaster today – and her senses are more focussed on everything around her, rather than some indistinct brushwork.

The brunette that’s been sitting next to her for twenty minutes is yet to move, and it’s nearing the time of the rendezvous. This could be tricky.

How can someone spend twenty minutes staring at a single piece of art? She doesn’t understand it – doesn’t want to – but is somehow curious all the same. Maybe that part of her brain was left out when she grew into adulthood.

“Always makes me feel a little melancholy. A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap.” The brunette besides her heaves a heavy sigh and folds her coat over her lap. “The inevitability of time, don’t you think?”

James wonders why she’s talking. “That’s rather maudlin, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” The brunette shrugs visibly. “What do you see?”

“A bloody big ship.” She moves to stand, irritation crossing her features. She’ll have to meet the Quartermaster somewhere else. This _tourist_ isn’t doing much for anonymity. “Excuse me.”

“007.” The other woman looks up at her. “I had hoped you’d be slightly more perceptive.”

Well, this does change things. The Quartermaster had been sitting next to her the entire time, and hadn’t even thought to speak up? James gives her a practised glance as she sits back down. Not-unpretty, but rather geeky – _nerdy_ even, with glasses and her shirt collar done tightly up to her neck.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

She folds her hands in her lap and eyes James, obviously not phased. “Why do you say that?”

“You’ve still got spots.”

“Age is no guarantee of efficacy, 007.” She says, primly, “And they’re freckles.”

“And youth is not a guarantee of wisdom.” James says, but holds out a hand to her all the same. “James.”

She takes it. “Q.”

James feels callouses under her palm, which is in direct contradiction to the exterior appearance Q has. “Do you do a lot of manual labour, Q?”

Q gives her a withering look. “I’m not just a technician, 007. I do a lot of work with my hands. If you visited R&D once in a while, you’d know.”

She hadn’t been down to R&D since Q’s predecessor had been still around, and he’d died several years earlier. The funeral had been simple, and she hadn’t attended. She lets go. “I’ll consider it.”

“Good. I can’t chase after you whenever you break something.” Q says, coolly. “Now, did you want what you came here for, or were you planning to leave without it?”

There’s a note in her voice that James recognises. The no-nonsense, all-business approach. She’s sure she’s heard it before but… where…?

“Shall we get on?”

She files the thought away for later pondering. “Of course. `

 

It’s another doomsday cult. It always bloody is. At this point, she’s hoping they do all die in some sort of end of the world scenario on December 21st so she doesn’t have to break up another group of wannabe terrorists who want to play God.

Q presents her with a Glock 23. A simple gun. Nothing more, nothing less.

She never thought she’d have a hankering for the moronic ‘invisible car’ (which was actually a total myth) that her predecessor had tried to develop in the late nineties. “Not very spy thriller,” She says, and means it.

“I’d thought the old dog wouldn’t want any new tricks.” Q says, but then smiles deviously. “Tell you what: if you bring that back in one piece, I might crack out the garrotte-wire watch and the laser glasses. Fair trade?”

“Fair trade.” She will go to the ends of the earth to wipe that smug grin off Q’s face. The other woman seems to be wilier than she first appeared and James will do anything to get inside that shell.

 

Two weeks later she drops the Glock onto Q’s desk in R&D. It’s been neatly bisected in half along its length – like someone’s taken to it with a laser cutter.

“…How…?” Q asks smugly, very clear that she’s won.

“Fell into a ravine.” It’s only part of the story, but at least that bit’s true.

“I suppose we’ll save the garrotte-wire watch for next time, Bond. Shame.” Q tsks, under her breath.

 

James is going to win this thing if it kills her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of this scene is stolen shamelessly from skyfall because i liked it a lot 
> 
> my james is carrying a glock 23 because they're guns that are better suited for women. i have no idea if they were out in 2012 - here's hoping they were!
> 
> ty for reading, pals.


	5. bungalow

 

Another day, another honeypot. As much as she loves sex, ‘seduce the rich but unceremoniously evil bad guy to steal his secrets’ is becoming a bit routine. It’s like she’s a spy from a film, and she’s only being given honeypot missions because the audience finds it erotic.

 

Honestly, media standards these days. They’ll show anything on tv.

 

Q presents her with another gun. A Ruger LC9 - which is a little small for her liking, but realistically, this mission’s only supposed to be a seduction.

 

If she’s lucky, she’ll not have to use it at all.

 

“A gun and an earpiece.” She says, flatly. “That’s very sixties of you, Q.”

 

“How do you know, 007?” Q loads the gun and flips the safety on. “Even you aren’t that old.”

 

“Don’t push it, pup.” The Scottish term slips from her lips without her meaning it to. “Your technology doesn’t like insults.”

 

“My technology doesn’t like being broken.” Q shrugs. “I guess you’ll have to make do without the new lipstick I’ve been developing. I’ve heard it’s  _ quite  _ the killer.” 

 

That’s one thing about having a female head of R&D. The old Q really never seemed to understand the damage one could do with the right type of perfume and the right shade of lipstick. “Shame.” She purrs, “I could have modelled it for you.” 

 

Q rolls her eyes. “You’ll have to try harder than that, 007. Bring my gadgets back unbroken and I might let you play. You need to make the effort first.”

 

“I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.” James takes the gun and tucks it into the holster under her dress. “Bye, Q. Don’t stay up past your bedtime.” 

 

“Wow. Another age joke. Original. Don’t die, 007!” Q yells at her back as she pads in her sock feet out of the R&D department. She has to wear heels later, but there’s no way she’s putting them on until she has to. 

  
  


The mission is a royal cock-up.

 

Firstly, it turns out that the mark doesn’t even  _ like  _ women. James finds out later that he even has a subscription to Men.com, and that’s a sign that screams ‘not into women’ in giant flashing lights in her eyes. How had Research missed it?

 

The seduction route is quickly thrown out of the window.

 

She opts for the smash and grab, which doesn’t go  _ amazingly  _ well. Soon enough, she’s sprinting down a hallway, shoeless, bullets pinging against the wall around her. There’s also a piercing alarm going off, which doesn’t help matters. 

 

“I’d appreciate some help, if you could spare someone.” She yells into her earpiece. “A way out would be nice!”

 

The person overseeing her mission - who she’s affectionately named Tech #2, because she’s not been able to get any personal details out of him at all during their time together - types loudly in her ear. “I’m not able to get a schematic of the inside of the building, 007. Closed circuit.” His voice is dropping in and out as he speaks. The line’s terrible, but then again, she is under a whole ton of concrete.

 

“For the love of -” She turns a corner and comes upon a pair of guards waiting for her. For fuck’s sake. 

 

She draws her pistol and takes them out without a couple of shots before they’ve even got their guns out of their holsters. She’s only got another five or so shots left. 

 

This is  _ why  _ small guns are the worst thing to have. Even on honeypot missions. 

 

“Is there anything you can do to ensure I don’t die in here?” James ducks into a maintenance closet and hears the people chasing her run past outside. Five shots isn’t many. She’d like more, but  _ small guns.  _ They’re going to realise where she is soon enough, and then they’ll be back. At least the closet dulls the sound of the alarm a tiny bit. 

 

“I don’t-” 

 

“ _ Why  _ does no-one in this ghastly workplace know how to use the internet?” A cooler, far more relaxed voice comes over the line. It’s her technician from before, the one who had helped her off the roof in London. “One moment, James. Where are you?”

 

“A maintenance closet. Sub-basement level. I would like not to die in here, if that’s possible.”

 

The technician ignores her. “Explains why your tracker’s dropping in and out. You don’t see any networking cables around, do you?”

 

She glances around and finds a bundle of cables neatly tied together running along the edge of the ceiling and disappearing through a wall. “Which ones are networking cables?”

 

“They might be marked with-” Then the technician reads out a bunch of numbers that mean absolutely nothing to her.

 

She finds one that’s got the numbers neatly printed along it. “Found it. What now?” 

 

“Your earpiece has a section on the base of it that detaches. Pull it off, stab it into the cable and let me work. I’ll make it flash when I’m done so you can put it back on.” 

“The earpiece flashes?”

 

“ **Yes** , 007.” James can almost see the impatient look on the tech’s face.  She  _ swears  _ she’s heard this voice before, but she can’t place as to where. “It’d be inconvenient for me if you died, so  _ please  _ do what I say.”

 

“10-4.” James takes out her earpiece, pulls the base off and stabs the sharp edge into the wire. 

 

All she has to do now is wait. (And think about who the technician is. She’s heard that voice before. Maybe they’ve slept together?)

 

Bad Guy of the Week #20483 doesn’t like a pensive spy, however, and rudely interrupts her musing by throwing the door to the maintenance closet open and pointing his gun at her. 

 

She rolls her eyes. Business as usual.

 

When she’s finally dispatched the Bad Guy - it takes slightly longer than usual because he’s about the height and weight of an oak tree - and dragged him into the closet with her, she hisses into the earpiece, which still isn’t flashing. “I would love it if you could hurry up. It’s just that I have company in here now and he’s taking up three-quarters of-”

 

The flashing red light that emits from the top of the earpiece is petulant in its timing. 

 

She pulls it from the cable, puts the base back on and slots it back into her ear. ‘As I was saying -”

 

“Shut up, 007.” The tech’s tone is authoritative and she instinctively stands up a little straighter. “The building is rigged to explode. That’s what the alarm is. You’ve got five minutes to get out of there. Follow my instructions exactly.”

 

Well, shit.

 

James opens the door to the closet just another group of guards come running past. “Those instructions would be wonderful right about now!” 

 

“Take the left-...”

  
  


Approximately four minutes and 50 seconds later, James is standing on the sidewalk close to a small, sleek bungalow. The bungalow is just the cover for the giant complex underground, and it’s a great cover too.

 

Aside from the fact that-

 

James feels the earth shake beneath her feet and she’s forced to grab onto a nearby lamppost as the ground crumbles away beneath the bungalow. It’s a beautiful, terrifying twisted mess of destruction when the bungalow collapses into the hole made by the imploding complex, far below. 

 

The local police are going to have a field day with this one. 

 

“Thank you.” She says, to the night air, but also mainly to the earpiece. She  _ really  _ needs to buy this technician a drink. (If she can ever figure out who her technician is.)

 

“What for?” Tech #2 is back, and as emotionless as ever. 

 

“For the -” Her technician needs to learn how to bask in the afterglow. “Thank… whoever that was on the line before.”

 

She doesn’t think he will.

  
  


Q’s not happy when James explains that her gun, quite literally, fell into a ravine. 

 

(It’s a manmade ravine, and less of a ravine and more of a giant hole, but it’s close enough.)

 

“The earpiece is good.” James says, “I think I’ll be keeping it.” 

 

“I’m glad that something finally lives up to your high standards.” Q says, and tsks. 


	6. explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or, the abridged skyfall arc.

 

It is not unrealistic to think that the world is getting worse. Though she lived through the end of the Cold War, and the global tensions that stemmed with it, she’s seen so much in her time at MI6 that leads her to think that they’re heading down a bad path. War, poverty, surveillance -  _ at least  _ they have some semblance of healthcare. 

 

She doesn’t know. The only global politics that she’s really concerned with are the ones that she is directly involved in. 

 

(And she’s involved in more than most people will ever know.)

  
  


James is in deep cover in Turkey, monitoring Altan Solak, a low-level drug trafficker, when she catches a news broadcast on a television in a bar. 

 

_ British Governmental Building Destroyed in Presumed Terrorist Attack. Considerable Fatalities. _

 

MI6 is in ruins. Smoke rises from parts of the old building, twisting and tumbling in the early morning air. 

 

James feels numb. There’s nothing to be done. With MI6 fallen, with a stalwart like M missing, anything could happen. James’ had no contact from the organisation, no warning, and certainly no news.

 

In this line of work, no news is very rarely good news. There’s been a credible threat to their livelihoods and the world’s security. Without MI6 running at full strength, any number of potential criminals could slip through the cracks.

 

Solak can wait. She’s got to go back. Solak’s basically harmless, and the trackers she’s placed on him will easily monitor him until she returns. She’ll probably get a bollocking for leaving, but she knows for a fact that she can help out more in London than she can on a beach in Turkey. 

  
  


When she turns her burner phone back on in the terminal at Heathrow, she finds she’s got a text, sent a couple of hours earlier.

 

_ X00XE1TIQO1GXWTWTKMQWIWMTWH1TOMDI1GM51IM 82687 69286 _

 

After she’s deciphered the code and verification -  _ all agents remain in position, if enroute move to  _ followed by a location - she strips the battery and sim out of her phone and crushes it underfoot. She disposes of the phone, the sim, and the battery in three different bins on the way out of the terminal.

 

It’s a good enough place to start. She doesn’t know what’s taken down MI6, but she knows the text is from them - the identification code proved that much - and right now, she doesn’t have any more options. She’s just got to be more on her guard.

 

(More that she usually is, and that’s saying something.) 

  
  
  


The location of the rendezvous is an abandoned tube station beneath Westminster. She takes two taxis, gets out early and walks the rest of the way, just to throw anyone tracking her off. She would go home - get more kitted out and all - but she doesn’t want to risk it. If someone could bomb MI6, who knows what they could do to their agents? It’s best she stays on the move. 

 

She’s greeted by Tanner, the Chief of Staff of MI6, after a few minutes of waiting on the edge of the old platform. While she doesn’t exactly  _ like  _ him, it’s good to see that he’s survived the blast. If he did, surely others did too. 

 

“007.” 

 

“Tanner.”

 

He doesn’t stop. “Walk with me.” 

 

James trails down the old train tunnel with him. It’s dimly lit, cast mostly in shadow, and rusty. If she ever lost her footing she’d be getting a tetanus shot. 

 

“What happened, sir?”

 

He doesn’t give her an answer. She can see the tension in his shoulders from a few metres away. “Patience, James.”

 

A few hundred metres down the line he jabs something in the wall and a gap slides open, light flooding out. He steps through. “Coming? I will warn you, a train’s only a few minutes away.”

 

She doesn’t need the warning. “Of course I am.” She steps through the gap and finds herself in a brightly lit corridor. It’s concrete, utilitarian, but not degraded. “What  _ is  _ this place?”

 

“Old World War Two bunker.” Another voice interrupts before Tanner’s able to speak. “James.”

 

James turns and finds M striding up a side corridor towards them, with Q hurrying along close behind. M’s jaw is set, and Q looks anxious. James can’t be happier that both of them are alive. M’s been a part of her life for so long - she’s a total powerhouse and it’d be unfortunate to lose her. Q’s just very nice to look at (and a complete genius, despite her age).

 

“Ma’am.” James nods at her. “Q.” 

 

The older woman starts leading them away from the entrance, her heels clacking on the concrete floor. “We’ve been tracking you since you got on your plane in Istanbul. It was bloody stupid coming back. You could have led our antagonists right to us.”

 

“With respect, Ma’am.” She starts, “I had no idea what was happenin-”

 

“We would have notified you.” M interrupts. “You were given your mission for a reason.” 

 

“Solak is fine.” James stresses. “The man’s a moron, but mostly harmless. I’ve still got eyes on him.”

 

“Not good enough, 007.” M stops and turns to her. For a woman who’s a few inches shorter than her, and quite a few years old, she has the presence of a lion. James fights the urge to take a couple of steps back. “The chain of command breaking down is the first sign of unrest in a situation like this. If we let ourselves be undermined by confusion, we’ve already lost.”

 

“Yes, Ma'am.” James personally isn’t very fond of MI6’s strict adherence to tradition, but she’s not moronic enough to say that loud, especially not in front of M and Q. Those two could easily strip her of her rank and leave her monitoring small-town drug dealers for the rest of her working life. “What is the situation?”

 

It’s Q who answers. “Eight hours ago an unknown entity tried to hack into MI6 from the outside. I, of course, tried to stop it, but couldn’t trace the entity’s location before they stopped their search. A few moments later half the building exploded. Presumably, though we’re still working on that, because of the hacker.”

 

“Several high velocity explosives hidden within the building.” M answers James’ unasked question. “We don’t know how they got in, and we don’t know  _ why.” _

 

“Well.” James replies, “That’s not exactly ideal, is it.”

 

“No, 007.” M continues, “We lost most of R&D, all of Administration, most of Medical and several other units, as well as a large portion of Transport.”

 

“And the fatality rate?” 

 

“Fortunately, it looks like the attacker wasn’t trying to directly harm people, just cripple our resources.” M says, carrying on as though nothing has changed.

 

James can see the tension in her forehead, though, and how her jaw seems to set even more “How bad?”

“37.” Q replies, softly. “And they’re still pulling people out of the wreckage.”

  
Considering the size of the agency, it’s not  _ awful -  _ MI6 has over two thousands employees - but it’s not good either. It’s definitely the worse disaster that has hit them in all the time she’s been here. She’ll look at the lists of the dead and mourn later. “I understand. Now that I’m here, how can I help?”


	7. plane

The explosion was triggered remotely by Q’s hacker, but they’d managed to trace the entity to the island of Capri, just off Italy in the Tyrrhenian Sea. 

The hack itself had come from a dodgy little internet cafe on the northside of the island, but Q had no reason to expect that the hacker themselves had done a runner. Her pingback hadn’t been noticed, she was sure of that, and she’d managed to get some security footage from said internet cafe, and no-one who was in the cafe at the time had left the island.

They just have to go and find the bastard.

 

“I’m going to send the pair of you.” M says, finally. “James, for obvious reasons, and Q, because James can’t use computers.”

 

“That’s not tru-” James begins, genuinely rather affronted.

 

“Surely I should be staying here-” Q begins as well.

 

“No excuses.” M says, looking between the pair of them sternly. “Your staff will be able to do the clean-up without you, Q. James, it’ll just be faster if you have someone technical nearby for support.”

 

“But I-” Q starts, again.

 

“No excuses.” M replies, even more firmly. “MI5 is down, and you’re operating alone. Whatever the problem is, you’re going to have to sort it out yourselves. Your flight to Naples leaves in the morning, and you’ll get to Capri from there by helicopter. If you have any problems, talk to Tanner. You’re operating on your own now, you two.” 

She strides off down the corridor without any sort of dismissal.

 

James looks at Q, who is vaguely  _ green _ . “It’ll be fine.” James says, and thumps the younger woman on the back. “You’ll forget it’s your first time in the field soon enough.”   
  


“That’s not at all what I’m worried about, 007.” Q says coldly, and leaves her to it. 

  
  


It’s when they’re sitting on the tarmac, waiting for their flight to Naples to take off, that James notices that Q’s looking shifty.

_ Oddly  _ shifty. Q looks vaguely scheming and generally shifty most days, but this is extreme.

 

“What is it…” James asks, narrowing her eyes at the younger woman.

 

“I may not have mentioned it, 007, but I am awfully scared of flying. Apologies in advance if I have a panic attack in the next five or so minutes.” Q says, edgily. 

 

Well. It’s not the worst news that James’ ever heard, but it’s certainly up there. “Do you have medication?"

 

“Yes, 007, I’ve taken my medication. It just… doesn’t seem to be working so well, considering I’ve not actually been on a plane for ten years.” Q gasps, trembling slightly. She refuses to meet James’ eyes.

 

“Guessing I can’t get you drunk?”

 

“Combining alcohol and relaxants isn’t the best idea, believe me, I’ve tried.” Q noticeably twitches as the plane begins to accelerate.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Q has the decency to look a bit ashamed. “...Thought you’d ridicule me.”

 

“I wouldn’t ridicule you. Why would I ridicule you?”

 

“Because you’re  _ the  _ James Bond.” Q replies, twitching uncomfortable as the plane accelerates even more. “MI5’s untouchable agent. Pinnacle of strength. Et.al.” She breathes out sharply as the plane leaves the tarmac, knuckles tightly clasped around the hand-rest. “Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.” 

 

James grabs Q’s white-knuckled hand. “I fell in love with a woman and nearly left the job because of her. When she died I was a mess, for months. If I’m really the ‘pinnacle of strength’ then I don’t know what your baseline is.”

 

“You’re allowed to give a shit about people, 007. That’s just called being human.” Q says edgily, breath coming in short spurts. “You don’t get scared of flying. You just push through. It’s pretty fucking annoying at times.”

 

“Call me James.” James says, out of habit, but mainly because she can’t disagree. 

 

Fear hasn’t ever stopped her. Even when she was a child. She can’t say she  _ craves  _ it, exactly, but she’s never been one to run away from it. No matter the cost, no matter the damage, it’s always been hard for her to be scared.

Sometimes it’s better to face things head on.

 

“And look, Q, you’re  _ flying.”  _

 


	8. Capri Palace

Q dozes for most of the flight to Naples, is snippish on the helicopter and positively irate when they go through security.

James understands. Sometimes people look up to others. She’s always admired M, despite everything, but she’d never admit it. It’s probably fairly embarrassing on Q’s part.

Despite the countless bits of semi-illegal tech James’ sure that Q’s hiding in her bags, they make their way through Customs without a hitch.

  
  


The hotel they’re staying at is  _ luxurious.  _ James has stayed in some of the best the world has to offer, thanks to the beauty that is MI5’s budget and their many deals with hotel chains, but judging by Q’s wide-eyed look, she hasn’t.

 

The Capri Palace is fairly decent, even considering MI5’s standards. It’s certainly no corrugated iron shack in Kolkata, that’s for sure. 

Their room is exquisite. It’s all soft fabrics, warm furnishings and it even has a private pool. James is sure they’re not going to spend much time in it, once they find the hacker they’re looking for, but it’s a refreshing comfort.

 

There is also only one bed. 

MI5. Very them. 

 

“Are you okay with this?” James asks, gesturing towards the bed. She knows that some people can be very uncomfortable with bed-sharing, although she usually doesn’t pay it much mind, but something in her makes her want to ask.

 

“No, James, I just travelled hours to get here just to be trounced by a double bed. How will I cope?” Q says dryly, and places one of her cases gently onto a side table. “Shall I say no homo now and we can get this over with?”

 

“No… homo?”

 

Q rolls her eyes at James’ bewildered look. “You’re so out of touch. It’s a ‘youth’ thing. Don’t let it worry you.” 

“I’m not out of touch.” The statement is almost offensive in its simplicity.

“You’re a dinosaur, James.” The look Q gives her is almost conciliatory. “But that’s fine. Different generations and all that nonsense.”

“I am hardly of a different generation to you.” James is certainly not taking the ‘dinosaur’ remark to heart. Not at all. 

“Okay.” Q replies, and says nothing more. 

  
  
  


Q sets some kind of …hacking program… to work, and they go out for dinner in one of the hotel’s lavish restaurants.

James has to drag Q out of the suite, because Q seems reluctant to move away from her computer once she’s started. Q is not going to become a fixture, no matter the mission. While the destruction of MI5 is clearly hanging over both of their heads, there is no need to let the glorious Capri nightlife go to waste.

 

There aren’t many pleasures in this job, but being on a beautiful island with a competent colleague is one of them.

 

Restaurant L’Olivo is a two-star Michelin restaurant, lit softly with warm lights. They’re seated almost immediately, at a table in the corner. James takes the seat against the wall, so she can keep an eye on every angle, and Q sits opposite. 

 

To her surprise, Q orders for the pair of them, in fluent Italian. There aren’t many instances in her life where James is completely flummoxed, but this is one of them. The waitress seems overjoyed at Q’s tone 

 

After the waitress leaves, Q raises her eyebrows at James and says, “Knowing only one language in this world is a bit of a risk, isn’t it?”

“Truly.” James rumbles, and takes a sip of her martini. 

“Oh, and I said that we were on our honeymoon. So you should probably act like that. Mainly because I think they’ll give us complimentary dessert and that zabaione al cioccolato looks divine.” 

 

This is  _ exactly  _ why James doesn’t go on missions with R&D staff.


	9. Restaurant

Lying to someone is one thing.

Lying to someone on a  _ mission  _ is completely another. You have to  _ sell  _ it. Anything you’ve lied about immediately becomes fact, because otherwise, anyone could burn your cover.

Thus, the honeymoon thing is a  _ problem. _

 

“Just thought I’d warn you, I’m about to get really handsy.” She mutters, grasping Q gently by the wrist and pulling her in close.

 

“What? Why?”

 

“You told a lie, and now that lie has to become truth.” James replies, taking Q’s hand and placing a kiss on each one of her knuckles.

 

Q rolls her eyes. “Of course. That makes perfect sense.” She takes her hand back, gently, and then flutters her eyelashes at James. “Remind me, darling, how long have we been dating?”

 

Oh. Now this  _ is  _ interesting. One never thought that Q could take on a role with such alacrity and with such speed, too. This is something that needs exploring. “Oh, several months, Quincey, honey.” 

 

“Quincey doesn’t like ‘honey.’” Q wrinkles her nose and pouts. “Where did our rings go, James, dear?”

 

“Well, your parents are rather new-age, Quincey.” James replies, slyly, “So our wedding ceremony was of the ring-less sort.”

 

“New age?” Q snorted. “The only way that I could ever be new age would be if you entirely replaced my personality. Try again,  _ darling.”  _

 

_ Cheeky.  _ So Q’s going to be obstreperous. “Well, I-”

 

“Think of it this way.” Q starts, and looks up at James through her eyelashes. “Perhaps we’re the sort of modern couple that doesn’t see a ring as something we need. Perhaps we’re too in love and a ring would just be an unneeded gesture.” 

 

She flutters her eyelashes.

 

_ Little shit. _

James is actually rather taken aback by Q’s adaptability. She’s good at thinking on her feet. It’s not a talent she’s made obvious in their interactions together so far, but it’s a good thing to know. 

 

“Of course, dearest.” James runs her thumb over Q’s palm and smiles back, sweetly. There’s a certain viciousness in it, a certain toothiness, because, really, this is  _ another  _ variable to think about. 

But she doesn’t stop.

 

They eat dinner peacefully. It’s divine, of course, every dish beautifully made and impeccably styled.

 

Then they leave the restaurant arm-in-arm.

 

The journey back to the hotel is quiet. Q seems more concerned with looking up at the night sky, where the stars are far brighter than they ever are in London. Warm, welcoming lights twinkle from the houses around, and the moon hangs high in the sky. 

 

It’s so beautiful that it hardly feels like they’re on a mission any more. 

  
  
  


When they return back to the hotel, Q beelines straight for her computer. “Bugger it.” She huffs, under her breath. “This is why I should have stayed in. Their network…” And then she rolls into a huge amount of technobabble, most of which James cannot even comprehend. 

 

Finishing off, she says, “...that’s why it failed. I’ll need to adjust the parameters and try again.”

 

“How long will that take?” James isn’t tired, but she’s going to get as much sleep as she can get. While nothing is happening it’s important to keep her strength up for when times get tougher. 

 

“Couple minutes to adjust the parameters... “ Q murmurs, typing vigorously, “...and about seven hours for the damn thing to scan? Adjusting the scan parameters slows the whole process down. I did  _ try  _ to fix-”

 

James interrupts her before she can devolve back into technobabble. “Set it to start and then come to bed.”

 

“If this is your attempt at a seduction you’re really going to have to try harder, Bond.” Q mutters, still typing. It’s incredible how fast she manages to do it. 

 

“When’s the last time you slept a full night, Q?”

 

“When you say ‘full night’ do you mean  _ three  _ or  _ four  _ hours, James?”

 

_ Bloody technicians.  _ “That’s not healthy.”

 

Q shoots her a withering look, while still typing. “Yes, well, you can hardly talk. You have so many vices that no-one would dare list them.”

 

‘Alcohol’ and ‘sex’ are actually very easy to list, truth be told. “Don’t get snippy with me now. If you stayed up, what would you be doing?”

 

Q’s fingers stagger on the keyboard, just for a moment. “Stopping my minions from destroying my lab back home.”

 

“R is a perfectly capable young man and won’t destroy your life’s work.” James says. It’s not very reassuring, but then again, it doesn’t have to be. Q knows exactly how petulant she’s being. 

 

“R might just.”

 

“Fine. You win.” James hasn’t relented, not by a long shot, but she’s not going to press the matter any further. “Have fun… talking to people on the internet.”

 

“I will!” Q says, cheerily. “Night, night!”

 

James into the bedroom and strips down to something vaguely resembling nightwear. The bed is amazingly comfortable. It’s a far cry from most of the places that she’s slept.

 

Usually a vaguely horizontal surface is enough, but this feels nice. Perhaps it’s good to actually have some time away?

 

They  _ are  _ trying to catch a murderer, but the situation still could be worse.

 

Q comes in before long, just as James is on the verge of falling asleep. 

 

“R deadlocked me out of my lab’s systems and left a note telling me to ‘stay focussed’.” She huffs and flings herself onto the bed with a sigh. “And even though I could get through it if I really wanted to, it’d take several hours.”

 

“Not worth it then?” James grumbles, not even bothering to crack open an eye. She can envision the grumpy look that Q’s wearing perfectly.

 

“If they burn down my laboratory I’ll be very disappointed.” Q says, in lieu of answering, and shuffles about. Judging by the sound of things hitting the floor, she’s changing clothes too. “Don’t think I’m succumbing to your seduction techniques.”

 

“Being charming is not a ‘seduction technique’. You should try it sometime.”

 

“Yes, yes, whatever.” She clambers into bed and manages to take a lot of the sheets with her in the process. “Since you’re here, you can cuddle me. Show me some of that fabled James Bond intimacy.”

“Uh…” James cracks open an eye, not entirely sure if the other woman is joking. “Really?”

 

“You and I both know that intimacy for you is as easy as breathing. I’ve not had a partner in a while. Don’t make it weird.”

 

Well, that’s good enough for her. She runs her arm over Q’s waist, right where the skin is thinnest, and pulls her back to her chest.

 

Q sighs in utter contentment and moves back further, pressing her back right against James’ chest. She’s warm, too, like that jitteriness and finely-tuned neuroticism has manifested itself in a heat deep in her bones that’s striving to get free.

 

It feels good.

 

James is used to pleasure, is used to giving without much thought of receiving, but this feels  _ good.  _ She nuzzles her nose into the back of Q’s neck, resisting the urge to trail gentle kisses along that freckled skin. Good. This is  _ good. _

 

“I might just keep you around.” Q hums, tiredly, and then covers James’ hand with her own.

 

“Good.”

 

It’s one of the better things James has felt in months. 

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on the [ tumblr ](http://villainousfilmmaker.tumblr.com)


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